


Funerary Rites

by narie



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narie/pseuds/narie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of losing and loss, and the fact that Pavarotti dies on Monday but is only buried on Sunday. And also of gaining.</p><p>Written post Original Song, jossed in irrelevant ways since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funerary Rites

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains canon character death as per 2x16, Original Song. Although there is nothing graphic herein, if you are exceedingly squeamish about things dying and nature taking its course this may not be the story for you. Alternatively, take it up with Ryan Murphy, because it's his fault, and I will not apologise for being a biologist first and foremost. Many thanks to **peachpai** for chipping in to fill my many forensic archaeology gaps, and to **lyriquediscord** , **halona** and **ctrlaltdelete** , all of them lovely LJ ladies, for encouragement and discussion. All mistakes remain my own, as does my exceedingly awkward Google search history.

**Monday**

When Pavarotti dies Kurt expects to be shocked, but not paralysed by the unreality, by the novelty and finality, of his loss. Death is something he is familiar with, after all, something he is quite conversant about, and he knows that in time his only pet will become just one more in an ever-lengthening list he has been writing since he was far too young. Pavarotti is just a bird, and Kurt has experienced losses far more wrenching - his mother, of course, foremost above the rest, and sometimes all he can think is how he misses her, this woman he has constructed in his mind from scraps of memories own and borrowed both, but there have also been grandparents, and great aunts and uncles and other relatives more distant still - and yet he finds himself motionless and silent in front of his pet's golden cage, just staring, mesmerised and perplexed in equal parts.

Eventually he shakes his stupor off and from his vanity he grabs some cotton, fingers gently shredding and loosening it, and opens the metal door. Delicately he wraps a hand around Pavarotti - already cooling Pavarotti, who has never been a skittish bird and has suffered Kurt's daily intrusions into his space with little more than exasperated chirping, but who does not take kindly to Kurt's repeated attempts to trim his claws, for all that the internet insists it's a necessity - and places him inside the little hollow he has worked into the cotton. He doesn't know what to do next, where to put Pav down. Every surface is strange and wrong; he does not want to return home tonight and be surprised by this little bundle of yellow feathers surrounded by white on all sides, looking used and spent, like how he sometimes forgets to throw away cotton discs soaked in toner on those mornings when he's running late. He settles for putting Pavarotti back inside his cage, although it takes him another five minutes to decide what feels more correct, closing the door or not. The glitter he always sprinkles on the newspaper that lines the base catches the growing light, and he washes his hands very thoroughly before finally going downstairs.

The house is always quiet on the days when Carole doesn't work the early shift. Since they moved to the new house Kurt has fallen into the habit of making a pot of coffee as the kitchen lightens into morning, taking the first cup for himself and leaving the rest for Finn and Carole, gently warm. From the fridge he grabs some plain yogurt, from the cupboard next to the stove some muesli, mixing the two in one of their small chipped Duralex bowls like he has been doing for years. Sometimes he hears the house awaken above him, although since Dalton more often than not he is gone before there is anyone else around to exchange words with. A strange lethargy has seized him today, however, and he is still desultorily pushing small spoonfuls of soggy cereal into his mouth by the time his father appears at the doorway and finding him still in his pyjamas and dressing gown blearily asks, "You're still here? Something wrong, kiddo?"

"My bird died," Kurt says, stilling his spoon and attempting an even tone, for all that he knows his face betrays him - it always does. "He simply keeled over. I think he had some sort of attack."

Dad studies him for a second, carefully, like he is finding more meaning in Kurt's words than Kurt has imbued them with. He comes closer, laying a warm hand on Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt closes his eyes momentarily, and breathes surprisingly loud. "Well... if you need to be late..."

"Yes, maybe. Thank you, Dad," he replies, blinking and rising. He leaves behind the mostly-untouched remnants of his breakfast as he heads back to his room, where the first thing he does is slip the cage cover back on. He stares at the Burberry tartan, absently counting the number of black lines in the motif, before he realises what he wants to - needs to - do next.

His morning slips away, boys in Dalton moving from history class to math, or from English to biology as bells chime sharply while Kurt methodically opens boxes in the attic with his father's blessing. He's searching for the ones Dad first packed so many years ago, the ones that still hold his mother's cassettes and the player she used to record songs off the radio. He knows the song is in there somewhere, on the strange bootleg tape with instrumental versions of half of the White Album - some of them infinitely more palatable than others - that his aunt and mother used to listen to when they themselves were young, taking turns at imitating Lennon and McCartney. In spite of the decades in between it's no different than what he does at glee club with his friends, but the tenderness and ingenuity of it all chokes him for a second. In his bedroom, on his bed, carefully laid out like on that day so many years ago, is his mourning attire, waiting for the moment when Kurt's fingers will close around the plastic case and he will rise, dusting himself carefully and taping all the boxes shut together again.

He arrives at Dalton in time for the Warblers' weekly lunchtime meeting, and he _sings_. Music is what he does, what he has always done, what he knows how to do and the language he speaks the best. And if his doo-wopping is off-pitch and his sashaying off-beat, the other boys respect his grief and do not comment. Afterwards, when they are all clearing out of the room and the afternoon bell is about to sound, Blaine, who is rushing out of the room behind him, softly asks, "Kurt, are you ok?"

And Kurt replies, with only a light hitch in his voice, "I'll be fine. I know it's all a bit foolish, but it was just so unexpected. We were singing together, and then..."

"I'm so sorry," Blaine says, cutting Kurt off and bringing up his hands to tug him into a hug. Some part of Kurt wants to fight it, to gently remind Blaine with the roll of an eye or a huff of breath that for all that Kurt cherishes and, until recently, desperately needed this elevation from untouchable pariah to normal person, Blaine's touches have too little of the casual in them for Kurt not to react in ways he knows he's better off not.

"It's ok," Kurt repeats; Blaine is tracing circles on his back and Kurt finds himself once again blinking away tears. "I mean, it'll be ok. I want to bury him," he says with sudden decisiveness, finally pulling away from Blaine's embrace. He didn't know it until now, but as he recalls the dead bird waiting for him at home, shrouded in medical-grade cotton he realises that he does, that there is no other way but a burial. He can't imagine himself dumping Pavarotti onto the compost heap at the back of the garden, or flushing him down the toilet, or doing any of the other things he has heard people do with their pets when they die. "Everything else feels wrong."

"Absolutely," agrees Blaine. He makes to grab for Kurt's hand, but settles instead for offering his elbow, which Kurt takes. They walk down the venerable marble corridors of Dalton back towards the classrooms in companionable silence, and Blaine occasionally squeezes Kurt's arm, pulling him close every time. Kurt really needs to talk to him, but not today, not today - this day is complicated enough. "You know, I never would've pegged you for a McCartney man, but I guess I should have known when you knew all the words to Silly Love Songs."

From his studied tone, Blaine is trying to change topics, Kurt suspects, and has no way of knowing that he is doing exactly the opposite. Kurt remembers, vivid and sudden, his mother lulling him at night with snatches of 'I'm Only Sleeping,' and the hissing and scratching of vinyl on her archaic record player on those Saturday mornings when she cleaned their living room, even though Dad would buy her every single reissue on CD the moment they reached Lima. "I'm not, not really," he tells Blaine, not trying to check the nostalgia flooding into his tone this time, "But he was a constant fixture in my childhood. There were a couple of times when we almost went vegetarian, after him and Linda, but Dad held his ground there. His love of t-bones is unshakeable to this day, heart attack or not."

Blaine laughs fondly at that. "Really?" he says, slightly disbelieving, tightening his arm one more time, and Kurt decides to stop fighting it. Blaine's closeness is distracting, yes, but it is just as soothing; he is an anchor and someone with whom Kurt can comfortably and unreservedly share his grief, for a change, and he welcomes the opportunity.

"My mother was a huge fan," Kurt adds after a second of consideration. "He was her favourite Beatle. They're not exactly my type, but, you know how when you're melancholy the same songs will sometimes make you feel worse, and sometimes better?"

"Sort of, yeah."

"That's the Beatles for me." It's not something he can easily explain; he does not often try to put into simple words the way music can make him feel. Kurt chronicles his life in song and performance, it's true, but he never attempts to translate these experiences into a more analytic, more grounded, lexicon. He doesn't need to, not for his own sake, and his words are so sharp that some of the softness of those moments would inevitably be lost if he were to try.

"I think I understand that," nods Blaine. "Are you really all right to go to class?" They have reached the point in the school where they have to part ways; Kurt to art history, Blaine to economics. No matter how slow they walk, they reach it every day, multiple times.

"Go," he chides gently. "I'll see you by the cafeteria, I'm going to need something to eat after fifth period, anyway."

The rest of his day moves quickly; Blaine brings him an orange between classes and they have their customary cup of coffee after school, and although Pavarotti is ever present at the back of his mind Kurt finds himself relaxing and smiling and rejoicing like on any other day. When he gets home he tries to ignore the covered cage, moving bottles and jars around and starting on his French homework, but his room is quiet, and he cannot avoid the knowledge of what rests beneath the plaid fabric. Besides, out of the corner of his eye he can see the packet of birdseed he forgot to put away this morning and the imitation Burberry soap dish he bought off eBay that every other day doubled as Pavarotti's bath.

Tomorrow, he tells himself, he'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight he feels oddly drained, and he still has to make dinner - his father offers to help with the chopping, even though there is little to do, and as they work together Kurt recounts snatches of his day - and catch up on both his homework and all the work he missed in the morning. It's a bit uncomfortable, falling asleep when he knows what else is in his room, but he can think of no other place to keep the cage. Tomorrow, he promises one final time, and his eyes drift shut shortly after Blaine texts him _sweet dreams - see you tomorrow!_.

 

**Tuesday**

Every morning when his alarm clock wakes him the first thing Kurt does, still hazy and heavy-lidded, is stumble out of bed to lift the cover from Pavarotti's cage. More often than not the bird is still asleep, and after moving past his initial unhappiness over having been given something new and messy to take care of, Kurt has come to enjoy the way they both move together from night to day in soft synchrony, singing and whistling at one another. He doesn't remember until it is too late that Pavarotti will not be trilling with him this morning, that Pavarotti is instead a cold body at the base of his cage, and with a loud gasp he is shocked into sudden wakefulness at the sight of his dead bird.

It looks wrong in a different way that it did yesterday, the small still body, and Kurt turns away quickly. His morning routine is a carefully orchestrated affair, so there is little time to spend dwelling as he moves from bedroom to bathroom and back again, but the long drive to school is another matter altogether. He is not overwhelmed by sorrow like he was yesterday, when he pulled over once or twice to blink away tears that threatened to blind him, but it is there, quiet and constant, and it is certainly influencing his driving playlist, which today is comprised mostly of the same melancholy songs that he listened to so much earlier in the school year, when he was still at McKinley and Dad was still recovering.

Blaine is waiting for him before class with a latte, warm words and a new glint in his eye, one that Kurt is not quite sure he understands. They don't get much of a chance to talk until right before a Warblers practice that afternoon that Kurt knows is going to consist of little more than rerunning their 'Raise Your Glass' choreography for the umpteenth time. To say he is surprised to arrive at the far end of it with instructions from the council to return tomorrow with a suitable duet for his first competitive show choir performance is to understate things; he is similarly surprised, as well as a bit uncomfortable, with all the unsubtle smirking that ensued in the meeting room when Blaine leapt at the opportunity to sing with him.

"I can't believe they went along with that so willingly," he muses afterwards, when he is seated with Blaine at their usual Lima Bean table.

"Why? Everyone in that room knows you can sing, especially after yesterday."

He shakes his head dismissively. "No, no, it's nothing like that - thank you, though. I simply never thought Thad would go for a complete rearrangement of the set list with less than a week before competition. It's very... New Directions of him," he adds with a flourish and a crooked smile. Blaine huffs at that, short and delighted. His eyes are wide and his gaze intent, and he has both stated and demonstrated time and again that he is far from fluent in the language of romance but his ineptitude is so colossal, so gargantuan, that really, Kurt would laugh if Blaine's actions didn't still lead to sweaty palms and a thumping heart more often than not. "But yes, this duet of ours. What are we singing?"

"I have no idea... yet," confesses Blaine, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. "You?"

"I admit that, shockingly, I have no good suggestions either. Everything I can think of is too involved to be successfully choreographed in the time we have left," he says. Presented with his first opportunity to offer substantial input into the Warblers he finds he is still more closely attuned to New Direction's rhythms, even months after he was last a part of them.

Blaine smiles. "Let's both think about it tonight, then, and talk it over later?"

"Of course. I have some ideas for Pavarotti's casket, so we may not be able to talk for too long, but yes, let's."

At the mention of the canary Blaine's face is transformed, swept over by a wave of solicitousness and concern. "How are you doing with that?" he asks, leaning forward and extending his arm, palm upwards, a blatant invitation that Kurt does not take.

"I'm okay. It's still sad to think of him, obviously, sad and shocking, but..." he trails off. "The song yesterday really helped, actually."

"I'm glad it did. It was stunning, Kurt, really," says Blaine, and he's the one to complete the gesture he begun earlier, reaching across the table to squeeze Kurt's hand. It's a fleeting touch, the momentary contact of warm skin on skin, because Blaine pulls back like he has been burned, or like he regrets having reached out to begin with. Kurt, ruefully used to this ambivalence, refuses to seek layer upon layer of meaning in it as he drives back home, choosing instead to focus on their suddenly upcoming performance. At home they talk some more, but by the time late afternoon has darkened into evening they are no closer to deciding what they want to perform on Saturday, so Kurt spends most of the time before dinner scanning through his music collection in search for the right song, until his concentration is broken by Finn softly knocking on his door.

"Hey, your Dad said... I'm sorry about your bird, dude."

"Thanks, Finn."

"And mom says to tell you dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes," he adds, before turning away. He takes two steps before he doubles back and is again at Kurt's door, expression a bit hopeful as he says, "Actually, uh?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I see him?"

"Ugh," groans Kurt, but beckons him inside all the same. Finn never stands at thresholds, but on either side of them. Kurt thinks it's because he's so tall that he becomes uncomfortable with his head so close to the top. When it comes to Kurt's bedroom Finn has always been surprisingly careful to never invade his space, and to always remain standing firmly in the corridor until invited in, but Kurt has decided to stop wondering if this stems from lingering unresolved issues between them and now chooses to believe that it's due to the scathing glare he gave Finn the first and last time he got his carpet dirty.

Kurt removes the cover and they stare at the cage together in silence for a few seconds. "I'm going to bury him, but I don't really know what to do with him until then," Kurt admits.

"Well, uh, shouldn't you do something soon? I mean, dead animals rot and stuff."

"Ew," says Kurt, pursing his lips in distaste. "I hadn't even thought of that."

"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't just keep him in the cage," insists Finn.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? I haven't had any time to find a suitable casket yet, and I cannot bury him in anything less."

For a second Finn looks at him like he's crazy. "I've never had a pet, but, uh, shoebox? Isn't that what people usually do?"

It's a good suggestion, Kurt realises. Aside from the little black wooden box he has set aside to become the final casket, he does has a spare box he does not mind loaning to his bird, and he retrieves it from the shelf, handing it to Finn. "Do you want me to do it?" Finn eventually asks, and Kurt nods, mouth pressed into a wry line.

"If you would?"

"Sure," nods Finn, reaching to open the cage, his large hand dwarfing the tiny canary and his cotton bed.

"Actually, wait," Kurt says. He turns to rummage in his closet, in the drawer where he keeps those pieces that are pretty certainly bound for Goodwill, but can still be saved by next month's L'Uomo Vogue, and pulls out a thin, simple black scarf that has seen better days. "Here. Let's wrap him up in this, it feels weird otherwise."

Finn takes it. As the first turning is completed Kurt murmurs good-bye to Pavarotti, whose eyes have taken on a cloudy sheen but whose plumage remains bright yellow in death, and tries his hardest to ensure this will not be the image he conjures when, years from now, he recalls what his first pet looked like.

Finn is the one to pause, unbidden, when half of the scarf has already been wound. "You wanna put some glitter or something in here?" he offers, voice and expression both hesitant. Kurt would be touched if he weren't confused. "It's just, Egyptians used to put beetles and stuff in when they were making mummies, for luck - it was in a movie I watched with Burt - and since that's pretty much what we're doing, I thought maybe you would want to do the same," he explains, and Kurt suddenly remembers why, what seems like a lifetime ago, he was in love with this boy. Finn is not scared of touching ugly things, of being kind to them and extending them unsuspected courtesies, and deep inside there glows still that benevolence that drew Kurt to him in the first place. Some days it shines forth more brightly than others, he knows that very well, but it is incontestable.

"You know, that's a very good idea," he says, and from his collection of supplies grabs the correct sachet.

When they finish they replace the cage cover and wash their hands thoroughly - Kurt more so than Finn, despite the fact that he has not touched Pavarotti today - before going down for dinner, and afterwards go back to their respective rooms to finish homework and idle the hours until bedtime. Kurt has to be an early sleeper in order to be an early riser, but as he lies in his darkened room he keeps on twisting and turning, so he pads out of bed and knocks softly on Finn's door. It opens gently under his touch, silently, and he has to clear his throat before Finn notes his presence.

"Say, would you mind if I left Pavarotti's shoebox in the bathroom? I can't sleep, knowing there's a dead bird in the room. And it'll only be for tonight - I'll make his coffin tomorrow."

"Sure, go for it," nods Finn, not even looking up from whatever he's doing. "Just, you know, don't leave it somewhere I can trip over. Don't wanna bump into it if I get up in the middle of the night."

"I won't," Kurt reassures him with a soft smile. "Good night, Finn."

"G'night, Kurt."

 

**Wednesday**

Kurt does not finish Pavarotti's coffin on Wednesday, for all that in the morning he conscientiously loads all of his bedazzling supplies into his car. His original plan was to work on it in the lull between his final class and the two-hour Warblers practice that has been called as consequence of their last minute set list rearrangement, but well, him and Blaine really do need to practice their duet - and their kissing.

"Oh my _god_ ," he literally squeals into his cellphone as soon as he's hooked it up with his car's Bluetooth set up, pulling out of the parking lot. "He _finally_ kissed me."

"I'm coming over," Mercedes replies, and hangs up. He calls her back. "I'm on my way," she repeats.

"If you have two hours' worth of things to discuss with Finn, go for it. But I just left school."

There's a pause as she clearly looks at the time somewhere, and then, breath hitching slightly in awestruck disbelief, she exclaims, " _Kurt!_ Get it, boy!"

"No, no, practice ran late," he explains, and he cannot keep the laughter, soft and silly, from bubbling out of him. "Warbler practice. I finally got a solo - we're doing a duet, but do _not_ tell anyone, Mercedes - and had to run through it about twenty times to make sure it was perfect."

"Uh huh." He's pretty certain she's smirking.

"There may have been some of that too."

"Details! What happened? How was it?"

"So I told you how Pavarotti died on Monday, right? I was decorating his casket today and..." he begins, finding himself at a loss for words to describe the sensations that coursed through him and has to recourse to silly, trite words like 'wonderful' and 'magical'. Mercedes seems to understand him all the same, as he struggles to tell her how when Blaine kissed him Kurt discovered that there was a whole new language that could be made to unfold from the tip of his tongue and the shape of his lips and the movements of his mouth, just waiting to be learned.

"I'm so happy for you, Kurt" she says, and she sounds it, too. She does not even seem wistful or envious or any of the ugly things Kurt had never been sure he wouldn't have felt, had she been the one with a boyfriend first. Eventually he runs out of ways to describe his afternoon to her, and she exhausts all her synonyms for 'amazing'; they hang up and he spends the rest of the drive humming and singing softly along with his music, one hand always on the steering wheel, the other one sporadically lifting to trace wonderingly at his lips, his earlobe and all the other places where he can still feel Blaine's touch.

He gets home right before dinner, because he was not lying when he said practice had run late, and barely has time to drop his bag off in his bedroom and wash his hands over the kitchen sink before he has to set out plates and cutlery for dinner. "You look good today, kiddo," his father says when they're all gathered at the dinner table, doubtlessly in response to the smile on Kurt's face. "Something good happen at school today?"

Kurt has neither interest nor intention of keeping this nascent something with Blaine a secret, at least not from his father and the rest of the household, but casually and over last night's leftovers is not how he envisioned telling, so for now he aims for nonchalance and says, "I'm just excited about Regionals - I finally got a solo."

Finn replies, " _Awesome_! Congrats, bro!" just as Kurt's phone goes off again. It has been vibrating sporadically since he left school, first on its car cradle and now nestled snugly in his back pocket, as Blaine sends him text message after text message, and Kurt cannot wait to be back in his room and go through them all, which is why he magnanimously lets Finn have their bathroom first. It means he will end up running behind schedule on his moisturising tonight, but it also means more time to talk to Blaine. Or it would have, had Finn not knocked on his ajar door and said, "Uh, Kurt - your dead bird's stinking up the bathroom."

"What?" he says to Finn, and to Blaine, on his computer screen, he says instead, "Hold on a second."

He follows Finn down the corridor. An acrid, foul smell hits him as soon as he opens the bathroom door, making him gag. "Oh god," he winces. "You're totally right. I meant to finish his casket today at school but I got distracted," he explains, and can feel himself smiling, and grimacing immediately after as it makes him breathe in deeper than expected.

"I guess it's your first real solo, right?"

Kurt nods, hand over mouth, and then steps out of the bathroom, closing the door swiftly behind him. "It's quite disgusting, isn't it? I guess the steam from our showers did him no favours."

"It really didn't," agrees Finn.

"I should've taken him out of there in the morning, I completely forgot. What am I going to do now?" he complains, more a rhetorical turn of phrase than a genuine question.

But Finn says, "You could, like, put salt on him or something?" At Kurt's confused expression he explains, "I saw it on an episode of CSI. I think it was salt, anyway. Dude killed his mother years ago and then covered her in salt and no one noticed anything until they found the body thirty years later - she looked like she'd died only a couple of weeks before, so they couldn't work out who she was because they were looking at the wrong missing person reports and--"

"And there is no way I'm doing that," interrupts Kurt.

"Ok, well..." shrugs Finn, like he wasn't really expecting Kurt to say anything else. "Maybe you could steal some alcohol from school, or I could ask Mr Schue. I'm sure he could get Mrs Loeliger to give me some from the chemistry supplies..."

"And do what with it?"

"Put your bird in it, you know, like all those dead frogs in jars in the back of the biology classroom. That should keep him from rotting."

"You're not honestly suggesting I pickle Pavarotti, are you?"

"Why not?" asks Finn.

Kurt sputters, "... _because_! I want to bury him, not preserve him for all eternity like he's the second coming of Eva Perón." Not that Pavarotti couldn't have well been just that, given the gusto with which he had joined in with Kurt's run-throughs of Evita's finer songs. But the point holds.

"There are no peat bogs nearby, so I guess that's out too," murmurs Finn, and Kurt pretends not to have heard that one. Finn, meanwhile, keeps on running through his surprisingly deep knowledge of crime procedural plot lines, discarding options as quickly as he comes up with them. "I guess the easiest thing would be to freeze him. I mean, I don't think we could get some of those fancy flesh-eating beetles they used in that one ep with the museum. And even if you could there wouldn't be much left to bury afterwards."

"I am also _not_ putting my dead pet in the freezer, Finn. No way."

Finn shrugs again. "It's your call, but he's gonna keep smelling unless you do something," and he jerks a shoulder towards the bathroom door.

 

**Thursday**

Kurt does not finish Pavarotti's coffin on Thursday either. He gets home late after a practice that again runs overlong, and when he walks into the kitchen to make himself a light dinner Carole turns from the dishes she is stacking back in the cupboard and asks, "Kurt, honey, is that your dead bird in the freezer?"

 

**Friday**

Their final practice before Regionals is not as long as it could have been. Wes, David and Thad are apparently satisfied with the emotion Kurt and Blaine imbue their version of 'Candles' with, and all the kinks were finally ironed out of 'Raise Your Glass' earlier in the week, so they are released an hour earlier than expected and firmly instructed to do absolutely nothing that could jeopardise the competition between tonight and tomorrow morning. Their list of prohibited behaviours does not explicitly mention kissing, however, so Blaine and Kurt stay behind at the school, seated on one of the secluded leather sofas that is infinitely preferable to the back seat of either of their cars, continuing on their ardent pursuit to detail every one of the gestures and sounds they can elicit from one another.

"Do you wonder how many rules we're breaking right now? Or how many Warbler directives?" Kurt murmurs against Blaine's ear, making him shiver, and he is leaning in again to explore this particular causal chain further, but a sudden thought strikes him, and he jolts backwards instead. "Oh god. Pavarotti wasn't the last of his lineage, was he?"

"Uh," hesitates Blaine, reaching forward to tug Kurt back close and realign their bodies. "I don't think so..."

"I need to find out," Kurt says, suddenly frantic, moving away again as he makes to rise, or at least to find his phone so he can text Wes, but Blaine is insistent and pulls him back down, tightening one arm around Kurt's waist to keep him in place and softly rubbing his shoulder with his other hand.

"I'm sure they planned for this, Kurt, don't worry. And even then, it wouldn't be your fault, everyone knows you took excellent care of Pav. Sometimes these things happen."

"I know, I know, but I'll become a footnote in the Warblers Handbook all the same: 'Following the untimely demise of the club's mascot in 2011 at the hands of inept junior member Kurt Hummel the Warblers will dedicate one performance a year to the remembrance of the many canaries that in their life provided a visible symbol of Warbler unity' or something like that. That is not what I want to be famous for." His coy smile is enough to ensure that they lose the next five minutes to each other.

"You're such a dummy," Blaine chuckles fondly. This time it's his mouth on Kurt's ear, and Kurt feels himself blush. He smiles, not one of his tight-lipped faux-apologetic gestures, but a wide, genuine grin; then there is even more kissing, and more touching. "Speaking of Pavarotti, though," says Blaine, moving back only enough to look Kurt in the eye, arms and chests still warm and flush against each other, "Are we still burying him on Sunday?"

"Yes," Kurt confirms, "Regardless of what happens at Regionals."

"Ok. Good. Where?"

"I don't know," he admits, "I haven't had time to find a good spot myself, between practice and school and... this."

"Actually, I think I know a spot where he would like to be buried. I can show, if you want - it's not far from school."

"That'd be great," agrees Kurt, and moves in close again.

When they become too overwhelmed by sensation to carry on, Blaine drives them to the edges of Westerville, to a spot where suburban houses fade into a park gone slightly wild, dotted with sparse trees. It's not quite twilight, and their hands find each other and twine together as Blaine confidently guides them until they come to a stop at the base of a leafless tree. Kurt looks up: come spring, sparrows will build their nests amongst the budding branches, and sing. Their songs will not be as beautiful as the ones Pavarotti and Kurt sang to each other through the winter months, but Kurt knows that his bird would have been happy here. "It's perfect," he tells Blaine softly, leaning into him. "Thank you for finding it."

"I'm glad," is Blaine's only response. They return to the car, and to Dalton, where Kurt's Navigator awaits. With one more kiss, chaste and careful, and promises to call each other as soon as Blaine gets home, so Kurt can have company on the drive home, they part ways.

Kurt knows he has to finish the casket tonight, if he has any hope of burying Pavarotti this weekend. Regardless of the outcome of tomorrow's event he knows himself well enough to tell that he will be swept up in the feelings that are associated with competition, and with the new, heady rush of his public performance of a duet that becomes more transparent every time they perform it - his nerves are already fraying. Luckily, bedazzling has always soothed him, and now that he has finalised his design for the coffin he knows it will require sufficient concentration to numb everything else on his mind. He pads down to the kitchen to make a cup of lemongrass and ginger tea before he gets started; his father is watching some documentary on the television, probably settling in to wait for Carole to return from her evening shift. Kurt pays half-hearted attention to the stiff, accented voice describing the contents of a Viking funerary ship accidentally discovered near Oslo 200 years ago and all the DNA tests they did on what remained of the dead man until the kettle comes to a boil, but then, mug in hand, he makes his way to the living room. "Dad. Do you have a second?" he asks, setting his cup down on the side table.

"Sure, kid. What is it?"

"It's about tomorrow," he begins.

"We'll be there, Kurt. Eleven onwards, I know."

Kurt waves a hand dismissively. "No, no, it's not that. It's just... I wanted to tell you, my solo. It's actually a duet. With Blaine. My boyfriend Blaine," he finally says, feeling his mouth curve into that smile he still has no control over. He cannot help it; just a mention and even now his lips are suddenly ghosting with the memory of Blaine's mouth against them, but it does not really bother him, because even though they have not yet said the word to each other, it has been unspoken in every touch and word they have exchanged since Wednesday afternoon. This is not something he wants to hide, even if at the edges there lurks the fear of how some people will react. But Dad does not heave a resigned sigh, or any of the other gestures Kurt still dreads will someday reward a similar announcement. Instead he stares at him shrewdly, and simply says, "Wednesday?"

"Yes," confirms Kurt, and steps into his father's open arms.

"Come here," he says, hugging him tight. "I'm happy for you, son."

 

**Saturday**

The Warblers lose at Regionals, and once he recovers from the shock of seeing Coach Sylvester punch the Lieutenant-Governor's wife unconscious Kurt feels only disappointment. He can barely bring himself to smile congenially at Mercedes and Rachel and the rest of New Directions as they take turns hoisting their trophy and running around the stage, their joy loud and incredulous and decidedly not contagious. Blaine clearly notices, because he slips Kurt's hand into his and holds on tight as they make their way back to the parking lot. Kurt is ever so grateful that they know each other well enough to refrain from actually talking about the competition, beyond the part where Coach Sylvester _punched the Lieutenant-Governor's wife unconscious_ , which he uses as a segue into other examples of her peculiar madness. The rest of the Warblers start drifting towards him, shaking their heads in increasingly shocked disbelief as he weaves a picture of her with his words, happy to have been given an easily disliked villain.

The Warbler Council had insisted on arriving at the competition together so the dejected group boards the bus back to Dalton, and after awkward, disheartened farewells on the parking lot they all get into their cars and drive away. Part of Kurt is extremely grateful to this obeisance to ritual and routine, because it gives him the opportunity to avoid driving straight back to Lima, and postpone his Dad and Carole's inevitable, well-meaning sympathy, and, he suspects, probing questions. Blaine, who still has not relinquished his hold on Kurt's hand, walks him to his car and squeezes one final time before letting go and simply asking, "tomorrow, ten at your place?"

He goes directly to his room when he gets home, and ignores Finn's repeated invitations to join him and the rest of New Directions for a celebratory meal on Mr Schue's dime - "of course you should come, you're totally still one of us!" - and instead remains at home, alone in his room with the door closed. Sitting at his vanity and exfoliating with more vigour than strictly necessary he thinks about how he, unlike over half of the group out there celebrating, was there when the glee club was little more than a glint in Mr Schuester's eye and a defaced sign-ups sheet hanging asked in the boys' locker room, and for all that, or rather, precisely because Finn blatantly sang about him today it hurts so much that he is no longer a part of it in any way that really counts. The last thing he wants is to gather at a table and smile at his former team-mates whilst making sure they cannot guess how desperately he wishes he was one of them again, remembering all the while that his time with them has come and gone.

Pavarotti's finished coffin catches his eye, so he takes out his crafts box once more and looks for a surface to turn his frustrations to. He has a small amount of dark wood left, from the time he redecorated his basement room for Finn, and it is similar enough to the box he used for the casket that he begins to slowly fashion a gravestone out of it. It is nuanced, time-consuming work, because Kurt is adamant about making sure everything lines up perfectly, and as his afternoon fades into early evening the sharpness of his emotions abates somewhat; he stops entertaining fantasies of a triumphant return to McKinley's halls. He has finished the border and the numbers and is working on the second 'a' when a knock interrupts him. Without looking up from the gemstones he calls out, "Come in!"

"Did you seriously make that?" Finn asks, with a nod towards the coffin.

"It's not that hard," he says with a shrug. Six months ago he would have ached for the courage to offer to teach Finn to use his Bedazzler, but now he doesn't, and not only to spare them both that little moment of awkwardness. There is simply no way he would trust Finn with the little device, now that they live together, and actually know each other. "It would've taken less time but this week has been busy."

"It looks pretty awesome," Finn adds sheepishly, like the dead are not supposed to have bright, frivolous things. Only sombre, sober tones to accompany them in whatever comes next.

"Blaine and I are gonna bury Pavarotti tomorrow."

"Ah," hums Finn, and then he finally gets to what Kurt suspects has been the point all along. "Hey, are you and Blaine..."

"Yes," nods Kurt immediately, expecting the rush that so far has accompanied this moment without fail. But tonight, not even the thrill of telling Finn that he has finally found someone who wants from him the things Kurt has longed for so long to be allowed to want himself, can keep his smile from turning slightly bittersweet.

"That's cool. You guys were really good together today."

"So were you. The original songs were very impressive," he admits. "I really liked the second one."

"That one was sort of my idea, so thanks," says Finn, ducking his head in a show of bashfulness. He briefly tells Kurt about what happened in the choir room, after Mercedes sang her own original song - early drafts of which Kurt provided feedback on - but does not mention the verse where he sang Kurt's old taunts, and raised them from desperate to triumphant. Kurt finishes the next two letters, carefully shaping the curl on the 'r' before the paste settles and puts his tools down, looking at Finn.

He says, "Thank you," and after a lengthy pregnant beat adds, "For your help this week, I mean."

"Sure thing." Finn lays a hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezes gently before returning to his own room. His touch is very different from his Dad's, or from Blaine's, but somehow, nowadays, just as intimate and just as accepting.

 

**Sunday**

Carole goes to an early service on the weeks where she is neither at work nor too exhausted from working nights, and when he wakes on Sunday morning Kurt hears her footsteps on the staircase, the soft opening and closing of the front door as she leaves. He respects her beliefs and she accepts his lack thereof; they haven't discussed the topic of faith since Dad's heart attack, and he hopes they never have cause to do so again. Nonetheless, the solemnity Kurt associates with most churches feels oddly apt today, he muses on his way to the kitchen. While he waits for the coffee maker he opens the freezer and peers in; Pavarotti is still there, between a bag of frozen vegetables and an ice cream carton, shrouded in the black scarf and sealed inside a zip lock bag. While the latter will come off before the burial Kurt has no plans to do anything to the fabric beyond lightly brushing off the ice that has formed on it.

Back in his bedroom, cup of coffee in hand he inspects the casket with a critical eye. The inside is nearly black, as is Pavarotti's shroud, and even though no one is ever going to see it, the lack of contrast does not sit well with him; it is all too drab and too dark and too austere, none of which are words that Pavarotti ever earned. Looking around his room he spots the bird's cage and pulls off the cover one final time; with his fabric scissors he cuts a single piece off, one whole repeat of the full Burberry tartan and uses it to line the base of the box. Then, suddenly remembering the documentary Dad was watching a couple of nights ago he scatters some of the leftover birdseed on top of it - and some glitter atop that.

Yesterday's defeat still bothers him - not so much the loss itself, although Kurt has always been somewhat of a bad loser, but rather the fact that New Directions won without him. He attempts to distract himself by thinking about today's outfit. His original mourning clothes feel slightly excessive, now that the ache of the loss has dulled and besides, it would not do to wear the same thing twice in the same week. He pieces together a suitably sombre ensemble and settles in to wait for Blaine, checking his email and all the eBay auctions he's been tracking lately - a habit not dulled by his time away from McKinley - because none of his friends are online to chat this early on a Sunday.

"Good morning," Blaine says when he arrives at the door at nine fifty-seven. He is holding a single red rose, which he offers to Kurt. "For Pavarotti - and you," he adds, a bit impish, and Kurt sends an eye-roll at him that rapidly becomes a fond gaze when he takes in Blaine's clothes. Other people would deem it foolish and overwrought, but for Kurt this funeral is a serious occasion, and he is touched by Blaine treating it as such, showing up at his house wearing dark trousers and a black coat, without having needed to ask before - even if they are both wearing their school ties. He's starting to suspect that in Blaine's case the decision may stem from a lack of other acceptable options; as far as he is concerned, Pavarotti is so tightly wound with Kurt's time at Dalton and today he wants to honour that fact in as many ways as he can.

"Ready?" asks Blaine.

"Almost. We still need the body."

"Oh," Blaine says, blinking. This is something he has clearly not really considered, just like Kurt had initially forgotten about it himself. "Right. Where is it?"

"In the freezer," answers Kurt, heading towards the kitchen, coffin in hand. "He's been there since Wednesday. Finn suggested it - Pavarotti died on Monday, there weren't many options."

"Yeah, wow. I can't believe it's been a week already. So much stuff has happened," he says softly, and his voice catches when their gazes meet. Kurt opens the freezer and gingerly takes Pavarotti's bag out; Blaine eyes him quizzically and their shoulders brush against each other as, noticing his hesitation, he wordlessly takes the bag from him. Once he has pulled Pavarotti's shrouded corpse out Blaine dusts carefully for stray ice crystals, and he says nothing when Kurt opens the casket and the glitter and birdseed and Burberry lining are all revealed.

"I think Wes would be less than impressed if he saw him now," quips Kurt.

"Whereas I think Wes would be touched that you're taking such good care of our mascot," and Kurt feels himself blush. It has only been four days but already Kurt is starkly aware of the way this heat between them is going to change everything so dramatically, give entirely new meanings to things they have been doing since the moment they met, as he uses adjusting the draping of Blaine's scarf as an excuse to move closer and breathe in. The other day at Dalton he got close enough to smell Blaine, slightly salty underneath the overly astringent body wash he uses, and despite being fairly confident he likes it, he wants to keep on making sure.

"We should get going," he says. "I... this is going to sound horrible, but it's a long drive and I'm kind of worried he's going to start thawing. And smelling."

They don't talk about yesterday's defeat while they drive but Kurt's thoughts turn to it all the same, and to his friends at McKinley. Mercedes would have done this for him, he thinks, driven him to the middle of nowhere so Kurt could bury his one and only pet, and probably Tina, or Rachel too, although he doesn't put it past her to have demanded to sing. It would not have been the same, and yet part of him can't stop wishing they were here with him - or rather, part of him can't stop wishing he was somewhere else with them. But then he turns to look at Blaine, takes in the angle of his jaw, the line of his arms as he grips the steering wheel and his gelled hair, and he no longer knows what he wants, because he cannot imagine being anywhere but here, upon this path. Dalton has given him ambition and a grounded confidence in himself and his future; the Warblers have given him a competition solo and the opportunity to sing with another boy without words of upset or jeer, and Blaine... Blaine has given Kurt back to himself. He found the person Kurt used to be underneath the loneliness and hurt of the last few months and brought him back, and so much more besides, and Kurt is infinitely grateful.

McKinley pales in comparison to Dalton in every single respect. Beyond that, Kurt knows well that it remains distinctly unwilling to welcome him back. He does not want to go back, not the way things are or to the way things were, so he does not understand why he cannot move beyond the image of his friends up on that stage singing. As it happened he was only impressed, and happy for them, but sometime between their performance and their victory the knowledge of just how they must have been feeling turned from sweet to sour. Before he can untangle his emotions further Blaine is offering him a penny for his thoughts and their conversation gains momentum. The rest of the drive goes by fast and before he knows it they arrive.

Blaine heads for the car trunk first. "Hold up, I think there's a spade here - we can use it for the digging." From where Kurt is standing, it looks more like he's being engulfed by the car than anything else, but Blaine pulls back with a satisfied, "Knew it!" and a gardening tool in hand, unharmed. "Shall we?" he offers, far more serious; Kurt nods. Their movements become solemn, with Kurt carrying the casket and rose and Blaine the headstone and the spade, and they walk slowly, coming to a stop in front of the tree they visited on Friday. They circle it until Kurt finds a spot he likes, warm and southward, and carefully hands Blaine the rose and places the headstone there, aligning it with slightly unsteady hands. When he rises Blaine returns the flower to him, and he brings it to his face, breathing deeply in. Blaine squats and starts digging a shallow grave into the cold, hard ground, hefting the spade from hand to hand and glancing up now and then to judge his progress relative to the size of the coffin Kurt is still holding. Finally satisfied he stands up and straightens his clothes, setting the spade aside and taking a step back.

It is all very different from the first funeral Kurt attended - his mother's - or the ones that came after it. When his mother was buried Kurt felt, with the messy emotions of a child, like his world was ending, and only his father's presence managed to anchor him, a role he reprised unfalteringly every time they had to don dark suits and sombre expressions. The ache has never been anywhere near close, not for his dear grandma or the distant relatives he never really knew, but Kurt cannot help the fleeting thought that for all his childhood was never _bad_ , it has been full of loss.

Under Blaine's warm gaze he hears himself sing the last two lines of Blackbird one final time, slow and mournful like the dirge they have suddenly become, as he places the coffin in the hole. They stand in silent contemplation for a few moments, and Kurt feels his thoughts swarming and his eyes brimming with tears again, which he does not try to blink away. He reaches down and grabs a handful of dust, which he then casts upon the casket.

Afterwards, they decide to get some coffee and Kurt watches as Blaine, this boy, _his_ boy, stands in line to place their order. Kurt's heart suddenly feels as if it is breaking, his lungs are too small for his body and he is overwhelmed not only by the absence of his bird, but also by Blaine, by this unashamed closeness to another human being that he has not had for years. All the magazines he's read, all the romantic comedies he's ever watched, they all tell him that it is too soon, but Kurt is honest to a fault and convinced that this is the name for what he is feeling, so when Blaine sits down at the table and pushes towards him the same mocha as every other day he clasps both of Blaine's hands between his own and does not let go.

"I love you," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Cool story, bro: When I was writing this story one of the cats in the house where I live in decided to start hunting baby birds and leaving them as presents for me and my housemate to find. The last bird he brought me was a blackbird (still alive and healthy, and now back in the world of the free, thank you for asking), on Wednesday. I had been ambivalent about finishing this story until that point, but after such a blatant sign there was no way to avoid it. As **halona** said, I was being haunted by Pavarotti himself. How could I say no?


End file.
